


must love dogs

by iimpavid, voidteatime



Series: unfinished duet [5]
Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Arguments, Developing Relationship, Gen, Other, Peter Nureyev's Alias Catalog, Worldbuilding, robot abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22102045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iimpavid/pseuds/iimpavid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidteatime/pseuds/voidteatime
Summary: Dating an intergalactic man of mystery comes with some issues; namely his habit of disabling security systems.
Relationships: Peter Nureyev/Original Character(s)
Series: unfinished duet [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564903
Kudos: 11





	must love dogs

**Author's Note:**

“ _What have I told you about killing my dogs_?” Hieron marched from the foyer to the living room, absolutely thunderous. Their hands, working in frenetic gestures to maintain some kind of control, shook.

Aster sat cross-legged on the sofa, in one of Hieron’s less-transparent robes, tapping away at his computer, and looked mildly surprised to be yelled at. “They aren’t dead.”

They sputtered, “They aren’t! Wha— I can’t! You! _Look at them_!”

Aster obliged. Rothko and Duchamp were sprawled where they’d fallen. Limp. Transparent chassis dark without their metalloid skeletons lit by the soft glow of internal mechanisms. This was the fifth time, now, that he’d had to zap them just to get in the front door without Hieron at home and he was getting tired of dragging them out of the way. He considered asking Hieron to move their gigantic, plush beds— the beds they didn’t actually need because they were _robots—_ to the foyer. 

“They’ll be fine,” he said. 

“ _Fine_ ? They’re functionally dead! Every time you do this, Aster, _every time_ I have to replace their chassis! They’re custom models!” 

“Yes, _you can replace them_. I can’t replace my face if your dogs rip it off.” His complete lack of reaction, the cool detachment with which he spoke, did nothing to calm them down.

Hieron tried to meet him there in that cold place. They did. “We could circumvent that problem entirely if you’d let me program—“

“ _No_.”

“You’re being unreasonable—“

“Out of the question—“

“I wouldn’t attach it to your name! Or _any_ name!”

“I have one rule, Hieron: no pictures of my face. That includes your creepy dogs’ facial recognition software! If someone got their hands on them? They could ruin me and I shudder to think about what they’d do to you!”

They blinked at him. Their eyes flashed to the swan on the coffee table and they thought, briefly, about throwing it because it was diamondese and it wouldn’t break anyway. It might put a chip in the floor or a decent hole in the wall. No. They weren’t going to— _were not_ , _absolutely refused to_ \-- throw anything. They pictured the urge as clear as a pill bottle and swallowed all of it down. They said instead, as steadily as they could, “Rothko and Duchamp aren’t _creepy_ , Aster.”

“Are you ser— _of course_ that’s what you focus on.” He rolled his eyes. 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“That you value aesthetics over practicality?”

“Programming you into my dogs’ memory so that _you’ll stop killing them_ every time you visit is perfectly practical, in my opinion.”

“They’re not dead.”

“The _lifeless corpses_ in my foyer would beg to differ— if they were still alive to do tricks!” They started and aborted some clawed, bombastic gesture, then folded their arms across their chest instead. “You know what? _No_ . We’re _done_ having this conversation. I’ll deal with you later. I need to call Cecil.”

They turned on their heel and stomped away before Aster could get another word out of his mouth.

* * *

Aster made the mistake, then, of changing and leaving the penthouse to visit Vicky to divest himself of some particularly priceless rocks sewn into the lining of his coat. When he came back Hieron was waiting at the door with one vibrant-toothed cybernetic hound stood at their side.

Hieron stepped forward to lock the elevator door open then they stood back and folded their arms across their chest. “Sir, you _will_ stare directly into Duchamp’s adorable, skeletal face if you want to set foot outside that elevator again and live.”

Aster frowned and stepped forward-- the hound stepped to meet him, growling.

“ _Hieron_.”

“ _Aster_.” 

The duffel bag, the same one that always came with him when he blew into town, sat at their feet. Inside the penthouse. Too close to Duchamp to reasonably snatch away without losing his hand.

They let him stew for a few seconds— maybe savored the faint fear in his face, too, not that they’d ever admit it aloud-- before telling him, “No name or location metadata will be stored in his memory chip. But you will let him learn you or _we’re_ going to have to meet for coffee. So I can give you your luggage back and renegotiate the boundaries of our relationship.”

He breathed out his nose, slow and controlled, his eyes calculating. “Who’s the dogs’ mechanic?”

“Cecil Kanagawa.” They held up a hand to silence him, “I understand your reservations but this isn’t negotiable. You cannot continue to mistreat my animals. Even if they are robots. They’re _mine_.”

Aster finally tore his gaze away from the dog— a highly advanced killing machine usually only seen in war zones— to look at Hieron. “I understand how important this is to you,” there was a pregnant pause while he combed the situation for loopholes one last time, “so … alright. What do you need me to do?”

Hieron’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Just stand there and look beautiful. Duchamp will take care of the rest in a few seconds.” They slipped a sharp nail beneath a plate on the dog’s skull to manipulate its internal mechanisms. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

He looked pale. He swallowed, “... I suppose not.”

Duchamp agreed. He padded right into the elevator and jumped to balance his gigantic silicone-padded paws on Aster’s shoulders. It was a lifetime of gymnastic strength that kept Aster upright in his pumps under the weight of mortal terror. The dog didn’t breathe but its throat speaker made panting noises that might have been happy. 

“He wants you to pet him,” Hieron offered, sounding not at all like they were trying not to laugh at him. 

With one remarkably steady hand, Aster reached up to stroke the robot’s neck plates. “Hello, Duchamp. You’re a.. good... boy?” 

The casing was too warm to be metal and too smooth for plastic. It gave ever so slightly under his fingertips. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep touching it or never go near it again. Duchamp dropped back to the floor to headbutt Aster’s chest in gratitude then trot away into the interior of the house. 

“You can come out of the elevator, darling. He and Rothko share a consciousness, they’re something of a hive intelligence. They’ll both recognize you now.”

“Do you ever leave them alone for long?”

“Never more than a few hours and they’re only ever at home when that happens, with the rest of my security systems engaged. Min doesn’t like it when I bring them to family meetings.” They paused. “You just have a knack for catching them without me. They’re safe, Aster. The only person they’ll let deactivate them to open them up is me.”

“Not even Cecil?”

“Not even Cecil.”

He nodded and kept nodding until he had to rake his hands through his hair to stop the anxious movement, ruining the damned finger curls he’d spent the morning perfecting. 

Hieron sighed and pulled him into the penthouse by the elbow. They didn’t let go of him when they said, “I’m sorry I scared you and that I yelled at you.” 

He peered into the house; Rothko and Duchamp had taken over the sofa. It was remarkable that the antique didn’t shatter under their combined weight. “I’m sorry I ignored you for so long that you had to. You’re sure they’re safe?” 

“Your face doesn’t belong to anyone but me, darling, and we both know that Aster Wright’s name doesn’t exist outside of tabloid rumors. Even if my pups were compromised, no one will ever trace him back to you or you back to me.” 

“Right.” He knew he would have to work to believe that. The only thing for it was the proof of time. He straightened, adjusted the fall of his jacket, resolved to seem less anxious. “Well, how do you feel about theater? The Beacon’s showing _Étoile Miséricordieuse_ , if you’d like to see it.”

“I’ve never been to the Beacon,” Hieron replied, following the non sequitur effortlessly, “but I’d love to go with you.” 

“I think you’ll really enjoy it. I danced in it once-- with Mariya Turgenev.”

“Tell me about her; what was she like?” 

Aster smiled faintly, “Remarkably normal… and homesick.”


End file.
